A smoke at the stroke of four o’clock
A rope cloaked and soaked in a boat at dock
A bloke down below knows his clothes is washed
A note opened poem pokes cloves and watches

A light by the pipe buys time till the talk
A bride buys a bribe and a buoy broads the shark
A guide as guy’s guise gloats to be taut
A rite like the night knives close to a frock

A dash of the ash crosses quickly to a drop
A maid of the late states a ladle to be lost
A geezer got by gizzards or his innards takes a rock
A paper with an imprint imparts passage to be tossed

A ring in the air from the heirs of the lost
A tie that won’t bide, a gown that won’t walk
A yell from what hell do they tell their own plot
A line like divine or the vine be rotted